Anne: A Novel

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  CHAPTER XXV.

  "Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or tends with the remover to remove: Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom."

  --SHAKSPEARE.

  "Why did you not send across to the hospital at the mill?" said Anne."Dr. Flower, receiving no second message, supposed that CaptainHeathcote had recovered."

  "Well, you see, I reckon I know as much about this yer fever as thedoctors do as never had it," replied Mrs. Redd. "The captain couldn't bemoved; that was plain as day. And we hadn't a horse, nuther. Our horseand mules have all been run off and stole."

  Mrs. Redd was a clay-colored woman, with a figure which, cavernous infront, was yet so rounded out behind that if she could have turned herhead round she would have been very well shaped. Her knowledge of thefever was plainly derived from personal experience; she explained thatshe had it "by spells," and that "Redd he has it too," and theirdaughter Nancy as well. "Redd he isn't to home now, nor Nancy nuther.But Redd he'll be back by to-morrow night, I reckon. If you want tostay, I can accommodate you. You can have the loft, and the niggers cansleep in the barn. But they'll have to cook for themselves. I shall bemighty glad to have some help in tending on the captain; I'm about woreout."

  Mrs. Redd did not mention that she had confiscated the sick man's money,and hidden it safely away in an old tea-pot, and that all her knowledgeof arithmetic was at work keeping a daily account of expenses whichshould in the end exactly balance the sum. She had no intention ofstealing the money--certainly not. But of course her "just account" mustbe paid. She could still work at this problem, she thought, and earnsomething as well from the new-comers, who would also relieve her fromall care of the sick man: it was clearly a providence. In the glow ofthis expected gain she even prepared supper. Fortunately in summer herkitchen was in the open air, and the room where Heathcote lay was leftundisturbed.

  Anne had brought the hospital medicines with her, and carefulinstructions from Mary Crane. If she had come upon Heathcote before herlate experiences, she would have felt little hope, but men whosestrength had been far more reduced than his had recovered under hereyes. Diana was a careful nurse; July filled the place of valet,sleeping on straw on the floor. She ordered down the bed-curtains andopened all the windows; martial law regarding air, quiet, and medicineswas proclaimed. The sick man lay quietly, save for the continuedrestless motion of his head.

  "If we could only stop his slipping his head across and back in thateverlasting way, I believe he'd be better right off," said Mrs. Redd.

  "It done him good, 'pears to me," said July, who already felt a strongaffection in his capacious vagabondizing heart for the strangercommitted to his care. "Yo' see, it kinder rests his mind like."

  "Much mind _he's_ got to rest with!" said Mrs. Redd, contemptuously.

  With her two assistants, it was not necessary that Anne should remain inthe room at night, and she did not, at least in personal presence; butevery half-hour she was at the top of the stairway, silently watching tosee if Diana fulfilled her duties. On the third day the new medicinesand the vigilance conquered. On the fifth day the sick man fell into hisfirst natural slumber. The house was very still. Bees droned serenely.There was no breeze. Anne was sitting on the door-steps. "Ought I to gonow before he wakens?" she was thinking. "But I _can_ not until thedanger is surely over. He may not recognize me even now." She said toherself that she would stay a short time longer, but without enteringthe room where he was; Diana could come to her for orders, and theothers must not allude to her presence. Then, as soon as she wassatisfied that his recovery was certain, she could slip away unseen. Shewent round to the back of the house to warn the others; it was all to goon as though she was not there.

  Heathcote wakened at last, weak but conscious. He had accepted withoutspeech the presence of Diana and July, and had soon fallen asleep again,"like a chile." He ate some breakfast the next morning, and the daypassed without fever. Mrs. Redd pronounced him convalescent, anddeclared decisively that all he needed was to "eat hearty." The bestmedicine now would be "a plenty of vittals." In accordance with thisopinion she prepared a meal of might, carried it in with her own hands,and in two minutes, forgetting all about the instructions she hadreceived, betrayed Anne's secret. Diana, who was present, looked at herreproachfully: the black skin covered more faithfulness than the white.

  "Well, I do declare to Jerusalem I forgot!" said the hostess, laughing."However, now you know it, Miss Douglas might as well come in, and makeyou eat if she can. For eat you must, captain. Why, man alive, if youcould see yourself! You're just skin and rattling bones."

  And thus it all happened. Anne, afraid to lay so much as a finger'sweight of excitement of any kind upon him in his weak state, hearing hisvoice faintly calling her name, and understanding at once that herpresence had been disclosed, came quietly in with a calm face, as thoughher being there was quite commonplace and natural, and taking the platefrom Diana, sat down by the bedside and began to feed him with the bitsof chicken, which was all of the meal of might that he would touch. Shepaid no attention to the expression which grew gradually in his feebleeyes as they rested upon her and followed her motions, at first vaguely,then with more and more of insistence and recollection.

  "Anne?" he murmured, after a while, as if questioning with himself. "Itis Anne?"

  She lifted her hand authoritatively. "Yes," she said; "but you must nottalk. Eat."

  He obeyed; but he still gazed at her, and then slowly he smiled. "Youwill not run away again?" he whispered.

  "Not immediately."

  "Promise that you will not go to-night or to-morrow."

  "I promise."

  And then, as if satisfied, he fell asleep.

  He slept all night peacefully. But Anne did not once lose consciousness.At dawn she left her sleepless couch, and dressed herself, moving aboutthe room cautiously, so as not to awaken the sleeper below. When she wasready to go down, she paused a moment, thinking. Raising her eyes, shefound herself standing by chance opposite the small mirror, and her gazerested half unconsciously upon her own reflected image. She drew nearer,and leaning with folded arms upon the chest of drawers, looked atherself, as if striving to see something hitherto hidden.

  We think we know our own faces, yet they are in reality less known to usthan the countenances of our acquaintances, of our servants, even of ourdogs. If any one will stand alone close to a mirror, and look intentlyat his own reflection for several minutes or longer, the impressionproduced on his mind will be extraordinary. At first it is nothing buthis own well-known, perhaps well-worn, face that confronts him. Whateverthere may be of novelty in the faces of others, there is certainlynothing of it here. So at least he believes. But after a while it growsstrange. What do those eyes mean, meeting his so mysteriously andsilently? Whose mouth is that? Whose brow? What vague suggestions ofsomething stronger than he is, some dormant force which laughs him toscorn, are lurking behind that mask? In the outline of the features, thecurve of the jaw and chin, perhaps he notes a suggested likeness to thisor that animal of the lower class--a sign of some trait which he was notconscious he possessed. And then--those strange eyes! They are his own;nothing new; yet in their depths all sorts of mocking meanings seem torise. The world, with all its associations, even his own history also,drops from him like a garment, and he is left alone, facing the problemof his own existence. It is the old riddle of the Sphinx.

  Something of this passed through Anne's mind at that moment. She was tooyoung to accept misery, to generalize on sorrow, to place herself amongthe large percentage of women to whom, in the great balance ofpopulation, a happy love is denied. She felt her own wretchednessacutely, unceasingly, while the man she loved was so near. She knew thatshe would leave him, that he would go back to Helen; that she wouldreturn to her hospital work and to Weston, and that that
would be theend. There was not in her mind a thought of anything else. Yet thiscertainty did not prevent the two large slow tears that rose and welledover as she watched the eyes in the glass, watched them as though theywere the eyes of some one else.

  Diana's head now appeared, giving the morning bulletin: the captain hadslept "like a cherrb," and was already "'mos' well." Anne went down bythe outside stairway, and ate her breakfast under the trees not far fromMrs. Redd's out-door hearth. She told July that she should return to thehospital during the coming night, or, if the mountain path could not betraversed in the darkness, they must start at dawn.

  "I don't think it's quite fair of you to quit so soon," objected Mrs.Redd, loath to lose her profit.

  "If you can find any one to escort me, I will leave you Diana and July,"answered Anne. "For myself, I can not stay longer."

  July went in with the sick man's breakfast, but came forth againimmediately. "He wants _yo'_ to come, miss."

  "I can not come now. If he eats his breakfast obediently, I will come inand see him later," said the nurse.

  "Isn't much trouble 'bout _eating_," said July, grinning. "Cap'n he eatslike he 'mos' starved."

  Anne remained sitting under the trees, while the two black servantsattended to her patient. At ten o'clock he was reported as "sittin' upin bed, and powerful smart." This bulletin was soon followed by another,"Him all tired out now, and gone to sleep."

  Leaving directions for the next hour, she strolled into the woods behindthe house. She had intended to go but a short distance, but, led on byher own restlessness and the dull pain in her heart, she wanderedfarther than she knew.

  Jacob Redd's little farm was on the northern edge of the valley; itsfields and wood-lot ascended the side of the mountain. Anne, reachingthe end of the wood-lot, opened the gate, and went on up the hill. Shefollowed a little trail. The trees were larger than those through whichshe had travelled on the opposite side of the valley; it was a wood, nota thicket; the sunshine was hot, the green silent shade pleasant. Shewent on, although now the trail was climbing upward steeply, and rocksappeared. She had been ascending for half an hour, when she camesuddenly upon a narrow, deep ravine, crossing from left to right; thetrail turned and followed its edge; but as its depths looked cool andinviting, and as she thought she heard the sound of a brook below, sheleft the little path, and went downward into the glen. When she reachedthe bottom she found herself beside a brook, flowing along over whitepebbles; it was not more than a foot wide, but full of life andmerriment, going no one knew whither, and in a great hurry about it. Alittle brook is a fascinating object to persons unaccustomed to itscoaxing, vagrant witcheries. There were no brooks on the island, onlysprings that trickled down from the cliffs into the lake in tiny silverwater-falls. Anne followed the brook. Absorbed in her own thoughts, andnaturally fearless, it did not occur to her that there might be dangereven in this quiet forest. She went round a curve, then round another,when--what was that? She paused. Could he have seen her? Was he asleep?Or--dead?

  It was a common sight enough, a dead soldier in the uniform of theUnited States infantry. He was young, and his face, turned toward her,was as peaceful as if he was sleeping; there was almost a smile on hiscold lips. With beating heart she looked around. There were twistedbroken branches above on the steep side of the ravine; he had eitherfallen over, or else had dragged himself down to be out of danger, orperhaps to get water from the brook. The death-wound was in his breast;she could see traces of blood. But he could not have been long dead. Ithad been said that there was no danger in that neighborhood at present;then what was this? Only one of the chances of war, and a common one inthat region: an isolated soldier taken off by a bullet from behind atree. She stood looking sorrowfully down upon the prostrate form; then athought came to her. She stooped to see if she could discover theidentity of the slain man from anything his pockets contained. There wasno money, but various little possessions, a soldier's wealth--a puzzlecarved in wood and neatly fitted together, a pocket-knife, a ball oftwine, a pipe, and a ragged song-book. At last she came upon what shehad hoped to find--a letter. It was from the soldier's mother, full oflove and little items of neighborhood news, and ending, "May God blessyou, my dear and only son!" The postmark was that of a small village inMichigan, and the mother's name was signed in full.

  One page of the letter was blank; with the poor soldier's own pencilAnne drew upon this half sheet a sketch of his figure, lying therepeacefully beside the little brook. Then she severed a lock of his hair,and went sadly away. July should come up and bury him; but the mother,far away in Michigan, should have something more than the silence andheart-breaking suspense of that terrible word "missing." The lock ofhair, the picture, and the poor little articles taken from his pocketswould be her greatest earthly treasures. For the girl forgets her lover,and the wife forgets her husband; but the mother never forgets her dearand only son.

  When Anne reached the farm-house it was nearly four o'clock. July'sblack anxious face met hers as she glanced through the open door of themain room; he was sitting near the bed waving a long plume of feathersbackward and forward to keep the flies from the sleeping face below. Thenegro came out on tiptoe, his enormous patched old shoes looking likecaricatures, yet making no more sound, as he stole along, than the smallslippers of a woman. "Cap'en he orful disappointed 'cause you worn'tyere at dinner-time," he whispered. "An' Mars' Redd, Mis' Redd'shusband, you know, him jess come home, and they's bote gone 'cross devalley to see some pusson they know that's sick; but they'll he back'fore long. And Di she's gone to look fer _you_, 'cause she was moughtyoneasy 'bout yer. An' she's been gone so long that _I'm_ moughty oneasy'bout Di. P'r'aps you seen her, miss?"

  No, Anne had not seen her. July looked toward the mountain-sideanxiously. "Cap'en he's had 'em broth, and taken 'em medicine, and hasjess settled down to a good long sleep; reckon he won't wake up tillsunset. If you'll allow, miss, I'll run up and look for Di."

  Anne saw that he intended to go, whether she wished it or not: the lazyfellow was fond of his wife. She gave her consent, therefore, on thecondition that he would return speedily, and telling him of the deadsoldier, suggested that when Farmer Redd returned the two men should goup the mountain together and bury him. Was there a burial-ground orchurch-yard in the neighborhood?

  No; July knew of none; each family buried its dead on its own ground,"in a corner of a meddar." He went away, and Anne sat down to keep thewatch.

  She moved the long plume to and fro, refraining from even looking at thesleeper, lest by some occult influence he might feel the gaze and waken.Mrs. Redd's clock in another room struck five. The atmosphere grewbreathless; the flies became tenacious, almost adhesive; the heat wasintense. She knew that a thunder-storm must be near, but from where shesat she could not see the sky, and she was afraid to stop the motion ofthe waving fan. Each moment she hoped to hear the sound of July'sreturning footsteps, or those of the Redds, but none came. Then at lastwith a gust and a whirl of hot sand the stillness was broken, and thestorm was upon them. She ran to close the doors, but happily the sleeperwas not awakened. The flies retreated to the ceiling, and she stoodlooking at the black rushing rain. The thunder was not loud, but thelightning was almost incessant. She now hoped that in the cooler air hissleep would be even deeper than before.

  But when the storm had sobered down into steady soft gray rain, so thatshe could open the doors again, she heard a voice speaking her name:

  "Anne."

  She turned. Heathcote was awake, and gazing at her, almost as he hadgazed in health.

  Summoning all her self-possession, yet feeling drearily, unshakenlysure, even during the short instant of crossing the floor, that nomatter what he might say (and perhaps he would say nothing), she shouldnot swerve, and that this little moment, with all its pain and all itssweetness, would, for all its pain and all its sweetness, soon be gone,she sat down by the bedside, and taking up the fan, said, quietly:

  "I am glad you are so much better. As the fever has not re
turned, in aweek or two you may hope to be quite strong again. Do not try to talk,please. I will fan you to sleep."

  "Very well," replied Heathcote, but reaching out as he spoke, and takinghold of the edge of her sleeve, which was near him.

  "Why do you do that?" said his nurse, smiling, like one who humors thefancies of a child.

  "To keep you from going away. You said you would be here at dinner, andyou were not."

  "I was detained. I intended to be here, but--"

  She stopped, for Heathcote had closed his eyes, and she thought he wasfalling asleep. But no.

  "It is raining," he said presently, still with closed eyes.

  "Yes; a summer shower."

  "Do you remember that thunder-storm when we were in the little cave? Youare changed since then."

  She made no answer.

  "Your face has grown grave. No one would take you for a child now, butthat day in the cave you were hardly more than one."

  "You too are changed," she answered, turning the conversation fromherself; "you are thin and pale. You must sleep and eat. Surrenderyourself to that duty for the time being." She spoke with matter-of-factcheerfulness, but her ears were strained to catch the sound offootsteps. None came, and the rain fell steadily. She began to dreadrain.

  Heathcote in his turn did not reply, but she was conscious that his eyeswere open, and that he was looking at her. At last he said, gently,

  "_I_ should have placed it there, Anne."

  She turned; his gaze was fixed upon her left hand, and the gold ringgiven by the school-girls.

  "He is kind to you? And you--are happy?" he continued, still gazing atthe circlet.

  She did not speak; she was startled and confused. He supposed, then,that she was married. Would it not be best to leave the erroruncorrected? But--could she succeed in this?

  "You do not answer," said Heathcote, lifting his eyes to her face. "Areyou not happy, then?"

  "Yes, I am happy," she answered, trying to smile. "But please do nottalk; you are not strong enough for talking."

  "I hope he is not here, or expected. Do not let him come in _here_,Anne: promise me."

  "He is not coming."

  "He is in the army, I suppose, somewhere in the neighborhood; and youare here to be near him?"

  "No."

  "Then how is it that you are here?"

  "I have been in the hospitals for a short time as nurse. But if youpersist in talking, I shall certainly leave you. Why not try to sleep?"

  "He must be a pretty sort of fellow to let you go into the hospitals,"said Heathcote, paying no heed to her threat. "I have your fatalmarriage notice, Anne; I have always kept it."

  "You have my marriage notice?" she repeated, startled out of hercaution.

  "Yes. Put your hand under my pillow and you will find my wallet; thewoman of the house has skillfully abstracted the money, but fortunatelyshe has not considered a newspaper slip as of any value." He took thecase from her hand, opened it, and gave her a folded square paper, cutfrom the columns of a New York journal. Anne opened it, and read thenotice of the marriage of "Erastus Pronando, son of the late JohnPronando, Esquire, of Philadelphia, and Angelique, daughter of the lateWilliam Douglas, surgeon, United States Army."

  The slip dropped from her hand. "Pere Michaux must have sent it," shethought.

  "It was in all the New York and Philadelphia papers for several days,"said Heathcote. "There seemed to be a kind of insistence about it."

  And there was. Pere Michaux had hoped that the Eastern Pronandos wouldsee the name, and, moved by some awakening of memory or affection, wouldmake inquiry for this son of the lost brother, and assist him on hisjourney through the crowded world.

  "I did not know that 'Anne' was a shortening of 'Angelique'; I thoughtyours was the plain old English name. But Helen knew; I showed thenotice to her."

  Anne's face altered; she could not control the tremor that seized her,and he noticed it.

  "Are you _not_ married then, after all? Tell me, Anne, tell me. You cannot deceive; you never could, poor child; I remember that well."

  She tried to rise, but he held her arm with both hands, and she couldnot bring herself to use force against that feeble hold.

  "Why should you not tell me what all the world is free to know?" hecontinued. "What difference does it make?"

  "SHE TRIED TO RISE, BUT HE HELD HER ARM WITH BOTHHANDS."]

  "You are right; it makes no difference," she answered, seating herself,and taking up the fan again. "It is of no especial consequence. No, Iam not married, Mr. Heathcote. Angelique is the name of my little sisterTita, of whom you have heard me speak; we first called her Petite, thenTita. Mr. Pronando and Tita are married."

  "The same Pronando to whom you were engaged?"

  "Yes. He is--"

  "Oh, I do not care to hear anything about _him_. Give me your hand,Anne. Take off that ring."

  "No; it was a present from my pupils," she said, drawing back with asmile, but at the same time an inward sigh of relief that the disclosurewas over. "They--"

  "If you knew what I suffered when I read that notice!" pursuedHeathcote, without heeding her. "The world seemed all wrong thenforever. For there was something about you, Anne, which brought out whatsmall good there was in my worthless self, and young as you were, youyet in one way ruled me. I might have borne the separation itself, butthe thought that any other man should call you wife was intolerable tome. I had--I still have it--a peculiar feeling about you. In somemysterious way you had come to be the one real faith of my life. I wasbitterly hurt and angry when you ran away from me; but angry as I was, Istill searched for you, and would have searched again if Helen hadnot--But never mind that now. If I have loved you, Anne, you have lovedme just as dearly. And now you are here, and I am here, let us ask nomore questions, but just--be happy."

  "But," said the girl, breathlessly, "Helen--?" Then she stopped.

  Heathcote was watching her. She tried to be calm, but her lips trembled.A little skill in deception now, poor Anne, would have been of savinghelp. Heathcote still watched her in silence--watched her until at lastshe turned toward him.

  "Did you not know," he said, slowly meeting her eyes--"did you not knowthat Helen was--married?"

  "Married? And not to you?"

  There was a perceptible pause. Then he answered. "Not to me."

  A silence followed. A whirl of conflicting feelings filled Anne's heart;she turned her face away, blushing deeply, and conscious of it. "I hopeshe is happy," she murmured at last, striving to speak naturally.

  "I think she is." Then he stretched out his hands and took hers. "Turnthis way, so that I can see you," he said, beseechingly.

  She turned, and it seemed to him that eyes never beheld so exquisite aface.

  "My darling, do you love me? Tell me so. If I was not a poor sickfellow, I should take you in my arms and draw your sweet face down uponmy shoulder. But, as it is--" He moved nearer, and tried to lift himselfupon his elbow.

  There was a feebleness in the effort which went to Anne's heart. Sheloved him so deeply! They were both free now, and he was weak and ill.With a sudden impulse she drew nearer, so that his head could rest onher shoulder. He silently put out his hand; she took it in hers; then heclosed his eyes as if content.

  As for Anne, she felt an outburst of happiness almost too great to bear;her breath came and went so quickly that Heathcote perceived it, andraising her hand he pressed it to his lips. Still he did not open hiseyes, or speak one word further to the blushing, beautiful woman whosearm was supporting him, and whose eyes, timid yet loving, were restingupon his face. If he had been strong, she would never have yielded sofar. But nothing appeals so powerfully to a woman's heart as the suddenfeebleness of a strong man--the man she loves. It is so new andperilously sweet that he should be dependent upon her, that her armshould be needed to support him, that his weak voice should call hername with childish loneliness and impatience if she is not there. And soAnne at last no longer turned her eyes away, bu
t looked down upon theface lying upon her shoulder--a face worn by illness and bronzed byexposure, but the same face still, the face of the summer idler atCaryl's, the face she had seen during those long hours in the sunsetarbor in the garden that morning, the face of the man who had followedher westward, and who now, after long hopeless loneliness and pain, waswith her again, and her own forever. A rush of tenderest pity came overher as she noted the hollows at the temples, and the dark shadows underthe closed eyes. She bent her head, and touched his closely cut hairwith her lips.

  "Do not," said Heathcote.

  She had not thought that he would perceive the girlish little caress;she drew back quickly. Then he opened his eyes. It seemed almost as ifhe had been trying to keep them shut.

  "It is of no use," he murmured, looking at her. "Kiss me, Anne. Kiss meonce. Oh, my darling! my darling!" And with more strength than shesupposed him to possess, he threw his arms round her, drew her lovelyface down to his and kissed her fondly, not once, but many times.

  And she, at first resisting love's sweet violence, at last yielded toit; for, she loved him.

  The rain still fell; it was growing toward twilight. Footsteps wereapproaching.

  "It is Diana," said Anne.

  But Heathcote still held her.

  "Please let me go," she said, smiling happily.

  "Then tell me you love me."

  "You know I do, Ward," she answered, blushing deeply, yet with all theold honesty in her sincere eyes.

  "Will you come and say good-night to me if I let you go now?"

  "Yes."

  Her beautiful lips were near his; he could not help kissing her oncemore. Then he released her.

  The room was dim. Opening the door, she saw Diana and July comingthrough the shed toward her, their clothes wet and streaked with redclay. Diana explained their long absence gravely. July had not been ableto restrain his curiosity about the dead soldier, and when he finallyfound his wife, where she was searching for "miss," they were both sofar up the mountain that he announced his intention of going to "findthe pore fellow anyway," and that she might go with him or returnhomeward as she pleased.

  "Sence he would go, it was better fo' me to go too, miss," said theblack wife, glancing at her husband with some severity. "An' while wewas about it, we jess buried him."

  The sternly honest principles of Diana countenanced no rifling ofpockets, no thefts of clothing; she would not trust July alone with thedead man. Who knew what temptation there might be in the shape of apocket-knife? Without putting her fears into words, however--for shealways carefully guarded her husband's dignity--she accompanied him,stood by while he made his examination, and then waited alone in theravine while he went to a farm-house a mile or two distant and returnedwith two other blacks, who assisted in digging the grave. The rainpattered down upon the leaves overhead, and at last reached her and thedead, whose face she had reverently covered with her clean white apron.When all was ready, they carefully lowered the body to its lastresting-place, first lining the hollow with fresh green leaves,according to the rude unconscious poetry which the negroes, left tothemselves, often display. Diana had then kneeled down and "offered apowerfu' prayer," so July said. Then, having made a "firs'-rate moun'ober him," they had come away, leaving him to his long repose.

  Half an hour later the Redds returned also. By contrast with thepreceding stillness, the little house seemed full to overflowing. Annebusied herself in household tasks, and let the others wait upon thepatient. But she did not deny herself the pleasure of looking at himfrom the other side of the room now and then, and she smiled brightlywhenever his eyes met hers and gave back her mute salutation.

  Heathcote was so much better that only July was to watch that night;Diana was to enjoy an unbroken night's rest, with a pillow and a blanketupon the hay in the barn. July went out to arrange this bed for hiswife, and then, as the patient was for the moment left alone, Anne stoledown from her loft to keep her promise.

  "Good-night," she murmured, bending over him. "Do not keep me,good-night."

  He drew her toward him, but, laughing lightly and happily, she slippedfrom his grasp and was gone.

  When July returned, there was no one there but his patient, who did nothave so quiet a night as they had anticipated, being restless, tormentedapparently by troubled dreams.